


Storage Space

by MissDavis



Series: Could Be Fun [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Implied Relationships, Multi, No actual sex, This is my first post & I'm afraid of tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has his own space at John and Mary's house now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storage Space

**Author's Note:**

> I took a workshop on writing about place and there was a prompt about belonging/not fitting in someplace. This is probably not what the instructor was looking for.

The spare bedroom. The spare room. Storage space. It wasn't even a bedroom until recently, still isn't, since no one sleeps there, though it does hold their old bed. John and Mary's old bed. 

Sherlock thinks of it as his room now.

He hasn't even spent a full night in the room, though he will admit (not to them) that there may have been a couple nights where he couldn't get to sleep in his flat followed by a couple days when John and Mary were both at work and he may possibly have come round and let himself in and spent the day stretched out in their old bed, not really asleep but not all the way awake, either, just in that comfortable in-between stage that really is all he needs to survive. Like thinking without quite thinking. Maybe it's not thinking; maybe it's feeling. Either way, it's sometimes hard for him to do it alone in his flat but it's easy when he's here in John and Mary's spare bedroom.

There's the bed but really nothing else that could properly be said to make it a bedroom. No dresser or wardrobe, just some boxes that never got unpacked and some wedding gifts John and Mary were too polite to return. There's a cupboard, but it's full of toddler toys and clothes that the baby hasn't grown into yet; someone at work passed them on to Mary while she was still pregnant.

Tonight John and Mary know that he is here, or at least they did, though they have now fallen asleep in their room in their new bed, the big bed that fits all three of them, though not for sleeping. They left the telly on; he can hear a crowd laughing. Sherlock takes off his scarf, unbuttons his coat and stretches out in the middle of their old bed, on top of the ugly white quilt that was also a wedding gift. John's side was the right--he sleeps on his back and there's a deeper grove on that side. Mary slept on the left, but she moves around a lot in her sleep so the mattress is less sprung. They're both too short, though; there's a ridge hitting him in the calf. He kicks off his shoes and pulls off his socks and wiggles his toes into the quilt.

The pillows are new. When they bought the new, bigger bed they kept their old pillows. Sherlock thinks maybe these came free with the new bed. One is firm and one is soft. He puts his head on the soft one and hugs the firm one to his chest. It smells like foam, processed cotton and fabric softener. The cases are not new; the striped pattern matches the sheets. The new bed needed all new, bigger sheets. Sherlock thinks about pulling the quilt down and getting under the old striped sheets, but he doesn't, not yet.

Earlier, after they'd finished in the other bed, Sherlock had told them he was leaving but first he needed a shower. When he'd emerged, clean and dressed, twenty minutes later, John and Mary were both asleep. His first instinct was to undress again and climb into bed with them. Instead he went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich.

He ate it standing in the hall outside their room, watching them sleep. When he was done he considered turning off the telly for them, but he didn't want them to wake and know he was still here. So he went down the hall into the spare bedroom--his room, they put the bed there for him--and stretched out on the bed, thinking. Not thinking. Feeling the scratch of the quilt on his bare feet, not as rough as the wool of the coat he still wore, because he'd meant to leave. He'd meant to leave. He should go back to his flat. This is not his home. But they put the bed in here for him. 

He closes his eyes and rolls onto his side, hugging the new firm pillow. Soon he would leave. Just a little bit longer, here in the spare bedroom.


End file.
